Growing up on a dairy farm, us kids had a couple of favorite cows and a few kitties. Our dad, when he was a little boy, had gotten bit by a dog, traumatizing him, so we had but one dog, and that was after us four kids cajoled and convinced him we should do this.
He caved, and we got a white husky mix we named Blinker who loved to run, which gave my dad angst. We’d had to bust him out of the dog pound numerous times, and our usually patient dad lost patience. If we weren’t outside (which was seldom), we’d have to tie him up with a long chain affixed to a pole, attached to his dog house.
Promising to keep an eye on Blinker, we’d be playing around the farm and get distracted. Off he’d go. The cycle repeated itself until our dad got good and sick of it. Despite tears and protests, he made the decision to put him down.
That was our first and last dog on my home farm.
The kitties, however, were a different matter. They were there for a purpose — to catch mice.
We had one old, beloved grandma named Pamper, who was related to our entire clan. Whenever Pamper had yet another litter of kitties, we’d wait patiently until they got old enough to play with and then put them into service, such as pretending they were wild, caged animals at the zoo. We’d haul them around in parade-like fashion in a cardboard box cut with generous slats that they could have easily escaped from, had they so chose.
Our little red wagon was put into service for the purpose of mobilization. We’d dress our great wild beasts up in doll clothes. Our imaginations were in overdrive. When you live on a farm at the end of a dead-end road, creativity is born from the catalyst of boredom.
Our cows were tame; we could pet them, walk in between them and weren’t afraid of them at all. We’d never housed a bull on the property. Before it was common practice, Dad had taken a class in artificial insemination and took care of watching for heat, continuing to maintain our herd in that manner.
Later, after marrying my husband, together we farmed for 42 years. Unlike my dad, my husband appreciated a dog on the place. Through the years, many found their way here by various means, and all were beloved.
Before selling our herd of dairy cows in May 2016 — while not really having a special favorite — I recall I was fond of a couple along the way. The mild-mannered ones were my favorites.
When our sons left home, it left just our daughter to help with chores. She didn’t mind, and even as a little girl, admitted she’d “play teacher” with the calves, pretending to give them homework and teach them different things she was learning.
One of my favorites was a furry, white-faced first-calf heifer named Buttercup, round and docile and compliant. While bringing cows in, I’d lightly tap her on her backside in a continuous tap-tap-tap all the way down the barn aisle. When I’d stop tapping just before her stall, she’d immediately turn in. She knew where she belonged when she didn’t feel the nudge. It made me laugh out loud. What a sweet girl.
After dairying, we’d raised Black Angus for a time, and included in the herd was a red steer, which I’d named Big Red. This guy was as mild as he was big. He’d swatch a wet lick across my arm with his sandpaper tongue every chance he got.
I’d bottle-fed him as a calf and then weaned him off to powdered-mix pail meals and finally, progressing to solid food. Every time I’d feed him, I’d scratch his red, fuzzy-curled forehead and talk to him. He was massive, and gentle as a dove.
My husband made sure I was gone and off the farm when he was sold to market, so I wouldn’t see him going down the driveway. That one hurt.
Occasionally we’d lose a cow to something, which was hard. We tended well, did the best we could and when we (and the vet) couldn’t help them anymore, we’d have to call the rendering service.
The animal would be down and couldn’t get up, so in empathy I’d haul a bucket of water out for her while she waited. Crying, I’d run back to the house and turn the radio on to cover the process of her getting picked up and carted away.
From a little farm girl on, cows, heifers and calves along with various cats and later, dogs, filled a big part of my life and heart.
(“Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, Your justice like the great deep. You, Lord, preserve both people and animals.” Psalm 36:6, New International Version)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
